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Running
Away from 40
By Bill Zahren
(Posted 01/15/03)
First of all, I want the sprightly
little Nadia who ran effortlessly on the treadmill next to
me Tuesday morning to know that I could bench press her.
I just want to make clear that
since she weighed 120 pounds at the most I could flip her
around like so much balsa wood.
Not that this knowledge gave
me much comfort as I glanced over at this waif-like, pixie
stranger whose little feet kissed the treadmill belt like
a kitten hurrying across a kitchen floor -- tap, tap, tap,
tap.
Oh how I hated her. How I seethed
with jealousy that Nadia could skip quietly along at 10 mph
while one treadmill over I sounded like an asthmatic rhino
crashing slowly through the underbrush.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, wheeze,
gasp, wheeze. I was like Darth Vader falling down a flight
of stairs. Somebody call a doctor, ambulance, Luke Skywalker
and my next of kin in that order. Even though it took me 20
minutes and 37 seconds to run and walk 1.5 miles at the Y
Tuesday morning (a personal best!), the fact is I RAN for
at least four of those 20 minutes. Technically that makes
me "a runner."
But, whereas Nadia and all
the similarly sub-10% body fat people worry about "getting
into a comfortable pace," I mainly worry about running in
places that allow the Emergency Medical Technicians quick
access to my fallen body.
My current plan is to run/walk
1.5 miles every other day or so, keeping track of my time.
In theory within a month I should be running the whole way
without having to periodically stop and breathe into a bag.
That’s the plan on paper, anyway. But the bludgeoning my joints
take from my 198-pounds of body is difficult to put on paper,
unless you count the consent form I sign just before undergoing
orthopedic surgery.
I shifted my gym focus from
the usual weight training to aerobic fitness earlier this
month. It was right after one of my biweekly freak-outs about
turning 39 this year (in February). I decided I’d rather be
able to run around the block than press 100 pounds over my
head 10 times (which I can, just for the record, Nadia).
Approaching 40 also made me
ask, "Now that I’m half dead, what have I done to benefit
my fellow humans?"
Lacking any good answer, my
immediate impulse was, naturally, to join the police force.
Nothing says "giving back to the community" like wearing the
blue uniform, body armor, utility belt, badge and 9mm semi-automatic
pistol -- striking.
Maybe I'm just flashing back
to my youth. At age 12 I really wanted to be a cop, much to
the horror of my mother, who thought I’d be shot by gangsters
even before I finished the application form.
I never missed an episode
of the realistic TV cop show Police Story (which aired on
NBC from 1973 to 1977). I remember the opening and closing
moments where all you heard was routine-yet-edgy police radio
chatter.
For about three years "policeman"
became my default answer to "What do you want to be when you
grow up?" Then my sophomore English teacher assigned me to
write a story for the student newspaper and the rest is history.
Now that I’m almost 39 and
looking to "give something back" before I die (which could
happen around minute 19 of my next run), I’m afraid the Police
Story boat has already sailed.
But, just for fun, I looked
up the physical requirements to join the thin blue line. I
found out they expect 39-year-old males to lumber 1.5 miles
in 13:36. Thus the mission was defined. 1.5 miles in 13 minutes.
(Don’t worry Mom; I’d still never pass the flexibility part
of the test.)
Besides proving I can run with
the officers, I also just want to be like Nadia. And my buddy
Jeff. And college classmate Ray. And my co-workers Lisa and
Jeff. And millions of other egregiously fit Nadias and Poindexters
who can honestly use the words "fun" and "run" together.
So I hope to celebrate my 40th
birthday (God willing) by being in the best cardiovascular
shape of my life -- assuming my joints hold out. (We Zahrens
have notoriously thin cartilage.) At this time next year,
I should be cranking up the treadmill to 12 mph and chatting
with the Nadia one machine over about the weather or the latest
in $198 running shoes.
And I'm sure you’ll understand
if the chatter of a police radio occasionally runs through
my head as well.
© 2003 Bill Zahren
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